Mikey
by Sweetloot
Summary: "His teammates called him Caboose, his sisters called him Michael." (On hiatus).
1. Chapter 1

If you asked Caboose if he had any siblings, he'd smile and say yes he did.

If you asked him if he had any brothers, he'd say no with a sad shake of his head.

If you asked him how many sisters he had, he'd smile and say seventeen, a smile so bright it put the sun to shame. If you asked him to verify that later, he'd say twenty with just as much confidence as he did when saying seventeen. If you asked him if he was sure, he might say twelve or nine or seven or eight, he might even say twenty-five or nineteen, and sometimes he'd say three, but never less than three, and if you worked behind the desk at a military recruitment station, you may just want to stab your own eye out with a number two pencil. However, you'd just write down his first answer and be done with it, sending the new recruit on so someone else could deal with him.

If you had bothered asking for clarification, Caboose would have told you that in his life he has had more that seventeen sisters, but never less than three.

Caboose came from a small, war devastated moon colony at the far-reaches of UNSC controlled space. It was there that Caboose met his sisters for the first time.

First, there was Dorothy. Dorothy loved daffodils. Dorothy's favorite color was yellow. Dorothy was his oldest sister. She had brown, curly hair that fell in ringlets across her shoulders and laugh lines etched their way into her milky skin when she smiled. Her eyes were blue, almost the same shade as Michael's. Michael called her Dot and she called him Mikey. She used his full name when she was mad, Michael didn't like making her mad. She always gave him piggyback rides whenever he asked and cut the crust off his sandwiches. She made the best cookies and knew the best songs. She couldn't sing but she'd sing Michael to sleep anyway. She hated the rain.

Then there was Ann and Jean, the twins. Ann wore her hair short and Jean kept hers long, both of their hair was the same shade of onyx, a stark contrast to the shock of blond on top of Michael's head. Their eyes were molten whiskey, sharp and piercing, each a perfect gem set in their earthen skin. They always argued over who was born first, but whenever it came time to watch one of the younger kids they would always point at the other and yell, _you're the oldest!_ Jean always ended up being the responsible one while Ann liked to slip away whenever someone mentioned work. Jean was level headed, always the one to keep Ann in line. Ann was the one to sneak Michael chocolate and Jean was the one to read to him when he was sick. Ann snored, Jean didn't. Ann walked Michael to school, Jean bought him his first pet fish. Jean taught him how to tie his shoes, Ann taught him the proper way to run. Ann loved hugs, Jean gave the best kisses.

Michael had a lot of sisters at The Caboose Family's Home for Wayward Girls, but Dorothy, Ann, and Jean were constant in Michael's life, the sisters that never went away.


	2. Chapter 2

Jean loved to draw. Michael always gave Jean his doodles, she kept them on the fridge. Once, when Jean was fourteen and trying her hand at painting, Michael decided that he was a painter too. He had been four at the time, but he was tall for his age, so it was no trouble for him to sneak into his sister's room and snag the paint she kept on the shelf.

It wasn't until later when Michael didn't show up to help make supper that they started looking for him. It wasn't until they had checked all of the rooms in the house Jean started to get worried. Ann's shriek from the backyard sent ice through Jean's veins.

Jean raced out of the house, Dorothy hot on her trail, and that's where they found Michael.

There were dozens of pieces of paper littering the yard and, in the middle of the mess, sat Michael, covered head to toe in a rainbow of paint. His hair was green, there were blue streaks smeared on his cheeks and the tip of his nose. His hands up to his elbows were orange and Jean nearly had a heart-attack when she saw his legs were red, until she saw the half-empty bottle of red paint at his feet.

And there was Ann, bent over, laughing like a fool, while Dorothy, sixteen with too much work to be dealing with this, glared silently from the doorway.

Dorothy stood up straight, bare feet padding lightly across the porch, smacking Ann lightly across the back of the head for laughing, then stood in front of Michael, close enough to look down at him, but far enough away so that his sticky hands wouldn't mess up her dress. "Michael."

Michael's blue eyes looked up, a smile on his face. "Hi, Dot."

"Michael. J. Caboose."

"Oh." He looked around, likely trying to find a way out. "I'm in trouble."

"Big time. What do you have to say for yourself?"

"Uh...Annie did it?"

Ann, who had still been snickering, squawked in indignation, glaring at her little brother.

Dorothy placed her hands on her hips, her lips pulled into an unimpressed frown. "Wrong answer." She then turned her attention away from Michael. "Jean, pick up this mess. Ann, take Michael inside and give him a bath. I think the paint has dried on his feet enough that he shouldn't mess up the floor. I'm going to go make supper. Mom and the girls should be back in an hour and I want it to look like this never happened, and for it to never happen again, am I clear?" Jean nodded her agreement while Ann did the same, mumbling about how it wasn't her fault, why did she have to clean him, before Jean elbowed her in the ribs to shut her up.

Dorothy, satisfied with the answers, turned to Michael, who was fiddling with a piece of paper in his hands. "Michael, do you understand?"

A sad little 'yes' was directed at the paper before Dorothy left, Ann going inside as well to draw up a bath.

Jean began gathering the supplies, a part of her mourning the loss of the paint, before a tug on her shirt got her attention.

"'m real sorry, Jeanie."

Jean sighed, bending down so she was on his level. He was looking at his bare feet, toes flexing in the grass. Truth be told, she was mad at him. She didn't have a lot of paint and they couldn't afford to buy her more right now, they had mouths to feed and, much as it hurt to admit, her hobby wasn't as important.

Michael looked away from his feet when she didn't answer, a small, guilty smile on his face when he said,"I made you a gift though," then thrust his hands out, the piece of paper he had been fiddling with earlier almost hitting her in the face.

It was a painting, that much was clear. There were blobs of color, each in a row next to each other, with names scribbled in what looked like purple crayon next to each.

Michael stuck and orange painted finger at the paper, pointing at each blob in turn. "It's us, see? The green one is mom, the yellow one is Dot, the red one is Annie, the orange one is you, and the blue one is me! I wrote the names beside them in case someone got confused."

Jean looked at each one as he pointed at them. They just looked like blobs to her, the names illegible and likely spelled wrong if she could read it, but Michael looked so proud, covered head to in paint.

So Jean gave him a small smile, thanking him for the gift. There was one brown looking blob in the corner that he hadn't named though.

"Mikey?

"Yeah?"

"Who's that?"

Michael looked to where she was pointing. "That's Freckles! Can't you see his spots?"

"Ah, of course, how silly of me."

Michael laughed, then started heading inside when Ann called, but Jean stopped him, calling out, "Hey, Mikey?"

"Hm?"

"Next time you want to paint, come ask me first, okay?"

Michael nodded his head furiously, rushing inside when Ann started to sound impatient.

Jean shook her head fondly, grabbing the supplies and heading inside.

That boy was going to be a handful.


	3. Chapter 3

The thing about Ann though was that sometimes she was mean, but not _really_ mean. She was impatient and lost her temper easily. Dorothy always said she had a heart made of fire. Michael once asked Jean why Ann always cried when she got angry during an argument. Jean had laughed and said it was because she was trying to put herself out. Ann kicked Jean in the shin.

Michael believed Ann was fire. She was explosive and angry, but she was also warm. Ann came home with a busted lip once, blood dried on her chin. Dorothy had been there in an instant, titling her chin up towards the kitchen light to get a better look. Ann brushed off the concern, saying it wasn't as bad as it looked. Dorothy gave Ann her _'I don't believe a word you just said'_ look and Ann crumbled. Ann then told Dorothy how she had taken Michael to the market. It had been cold, Michael in layers and wearing his extra warm mittens. Ann had been sixteen at the time, Michael six. Ann was distracted, bartering with a grumpy old man that smelled like tobacco and sweat. She didn't know Michael had picked up the jar, not until she heard a loud crash and an even louder wail. Michael was staring down at his feet, the broken glass and juice splashed on the concrete and up his legs. He was hiccuping and sniffling loudly, babbling out apologies when Ann had went and grabbed his hand, pulling him away from the mess and checking to see if he was hurt. He wasn't, just scared.

The grumpy old man she had been bartering with looked mad, his face the shade of an overripe tomato. The man's business partner, however, looked sympathetic. She offered to take Michael to the back of their store to clean him up and dry his clothes. It wouldn't take long since what he was wearing was water-resistant so Ann agreed, watching as the old woman held Michael's hand gently, listening to Michael's sniffles fade as the woman offered him a cookie.

Once they were gone, Ann had turned back to the old man. He told her she would have to pay for the jar. Ann agreed, cringing internally as she didn't have that much money to begin with, but knew she had to pay for it. She had been fishing in her pockets for her cash while the old man had turned back to the booth they had set up outside of their shop. He was a good distance away from her, but not far enough away for her to not hear his scratchy voice complain to one of his patrons about _'stupid, retarded children and their whore moms not watching them.'_ Ann had seen red, stuffing the money back into her pocket as she confronted the old piece of shit, calling loudly, _'What the fuck did you just say?'_ She had gotten up close to him, anger palatable in the frigged air. He shoved her back, telling her to _'back the fuck up, you bitch.'_ Ann had then proceeded to tear the man a new one, calling him a slew of names, spitting cures like hot coals, saying that if he _dared_ to say anything about her little brother again, she'd rearrange his face. She was in the middle of a curse when he backhanded her, her lip splitting and blood pooling in her mouth.

No one stopped her when she broke his nose.

She then proceeded to walk inside the shop, take Michael's hand gently where he was sitting, fully clothed and dry on a counter, happily munching on a cookie. She thanked the old woman for her kindness, quietly waving off the concern over her lip as to not worry Michael. She then suggested that she find a new business partner before walking out the door, Michael's hand held tightly in hers.

Dorothy just sighed, cleaning up Ann's face with a warm dishcloth, promising that she'd take Jean with her tomorrow to pick up the shopping that Ann and Michael didn't get. Ann smiled, kissing her sister on the cheek and taking Michael upstairs to change him out of his winter clothes.

Ann's love was bright and all consuming.


	4. Chapter 4

The Caboose Family Home for Wayward Girls was a small affair. They took in girls that the bigger orphanages couldn't house and gave them a home until space opened up elsewhere, they were lucky enough to be adopted, or the government built more orphanages.

As the war progressed, they built more orphanages.

Ms. Caboose, Marge to her friends, owned a two story farm house on a wheat farm. The girls she housed worked in the fields and in return had a loving home. Most stayed between a few months to a year or two before moving on, that was the general rule.

Only four people ever broke that rule.

The first was Dorothy, adopted by Marge at the age of four. Dorothy had been found wandering the fields, cold rain pelting her cheeks and soaking her clothes. The police had said she sounded like a dumping case, a cruel tactic over populated and underfunded families had been seen starting to do as the war continued with no end in sight. The war was harsh on its people, destroying their homes and livelihoods, taking away their sons and daughters for the war effort.

The police had told Marge that they must have left her there, unable to continue to care for her. At that time, Marge was just a simple farmer, not a caretaker of any sort, but she couldn't bare to turn the little girl away.

–

Then there was Ann.

She had been found at a crash sight, survivors being pulled from the wreckage. The only reason Marge had been there was because she could see the plume of smoke from her home. She had ordered Dorothy to stay, lock the doors, and to not follow her, she was going to go see if they needed any help.

Ann had been eight at the time, an inconsolable wreck as she screamed at the rescue team, thrashing in their hold as they pulled her away from the debris, further away from Jean.

Marge had seen the trouble they were having with her and went to help, scooping up the child as she shook and tried to break free before eventually tiring, slumping down into the hold.

Marge spoke comforting words to her, assuring her that her sister was fine and that they would get her out, but that right now she needed to go see the medics and to let the rescuers do their job.

At the end of the day, both girls were alright, physically at least. Their wounds would heal, but their emotional ones would need time. Marge took comfort knowing that they at least had each other.

It would be months before The Caboose Family Home for Wayward Girls would be established, and months still before the twins returned to Marge, a social worker with them saying that they needed a place to stay.

They weren't going to stay long, but when an opening became available in an orphanage two cities away, the girls refused, stating they would rather stay.

It wasn't until the fourth family that came to see about adopting the girls left practically screaming did Marge get the hint that the twins wanted to stay on a more permanent basis.

–

It was a warm day when Dorothy met Michael.

Dorothy was thirteen, wishing they had air conditioning and waiting for a breeze to blow through her open bedroom window. Summers were dreadful, hot and sticky, but night time was moderately better.

Dorothy was just about to drift off when she heard a cry. Thinking it was one of the younger girls they were taking care of, she started towards her door, until she heard it again, coming from outside.

She went to her window, staring out. She could see a figure running away, darting through the wheat fields and disappearing into the corn stalks that took up most of their neighbor's land.

The figure was gone, but the crying didn't stop.

Dorothy ran out of her bedroom, bounding down the stairs with little thought to if she was waking one of the house's residents. She didn't even think to get her mother, so used to responding to one of the younger girls' cries that she was already at the front door before she realized it. She had enough sense to not open the door though, to look out the window to check first.

There was a box on the porch, just barely passed the steps like someone set it down in a hurry. There was no sign of anyone else. She unlatched the chain at the top of the door, turning the handle gently and looking out. No one.

She padded out on to the porch quickly so she could get a better look at the box. Someone had draped a blue blanket over the top. Dorothy removed it, it was too hot for it anyway.

Inside was a baby, small, but active. It cried loudly at having the blanket removed, the light from the porch shinning in its face. Dorothy moved to block the light, reaching down to pick up the child.

Another shadow fell across her.

"Dorothy, what do you think you're doing out here at this time of night?"

Dorothy jumped slightly, too engrossed with the bundle in her arms that she didn't here her mother walk up behind her. She turned around, the baby temporarily distracted with playing with her hair.

"Mom, look!"

Her mom looked surprised, her brown eyes widening behind the fringe of her graying brown hair, but didn't voice it. Simply instructing her to take the child inside while she grabbed the box, hoping to find evidence of whose child it was.

There was small note at the bottom of the box, the only thing it said was 'Michael J.' written in a sloppy scrawl. There wasn't a reason for why he was here, no date of birth, no last name. There were no toys or bottles, only a generic blue hospital blanket, and Marge felt like her heart was being squeezed in her chest, the urge to cry starting to creep up on her.

"Mom?"

Marge squashed that urge though, there were more important things to be done now.

"I'll call this in. You just sit on the couch and comfort him."

"Him?"

"His name is Michael, he's your responsibility."

As her mom walked away, Dorothy looked down at the boy in her arms. He barely had hair, what he did have being so fair it might as well have not had been there. His eyes were blue, similar to hers, and as he played with the brown curls bouncing in front of his face, she wondered who could ever leave him behind.

She had wondered that same question about herself for years, having it twist like barbed wire in her mind, and she still didn't have the answer, but she knew one thing: Michael was her responsibility, and she wasn't going to let anything happen to him, not ever.


End file.
